A Phantom's Redemption
by Kiro Talon
Summary: It is said that there is one 'right' person for everyone. Erik never found his 'right' person. All that is about to change, though. A version of the story, set at the same time as the 2004 movie, with a new love interest to capture Erik's heart...
1. Chapter 1

© INFO: All characters and the original idea of The Phantom of the Opera belong to the original author of the book, Gaston Leroux. You can't ask his permission for anything. He's dead, as of 1927. The musical version of The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, and the Really Useful Group, excepting the character Sara, who is © me, 2005, and may not be used without express permission. I didn't, because this shan't be published, but if you don't know how to obtain RUG's permission to use their characters, you shouldn't bother using them. Permission to use MY idea, though, can be obtained at This story is purely fictional, more so even than the original novel, as it is a gift for a very good friend of mine. This work is dedicated to you!

NOTE: This story is based entirely on the movie of a similar name, and as such, the best reading experience can be obtained by keeping the movie in mind as you read.

A PHANTOM'S REDEMPTION

© Maître Kiro, 2005

The Opera Populaire still stood in 1919 as impressively and incredibly imposing as it had two score and nine years ago. The snowy buttresses were still silent and strong, despite the horrors the opera house had faced in the years of its existence. Most of those horrors were but rumour, passed down and embellished by those who claimed to have experienced them. Others were very true, however, and the marks of these horrors remained in the terrible scars they had left behind. But obvious as they were, most people would never have the privilege - or misfortune - to see them.

On this dank and dreary morning, three people who had seen those scars met in the courtyard outside the opera house, drawn by the ringing of the auctioneer's gavel. The meeting was pure chance, and if any of the three of them had had their way, it probably would not have happened. They did not particularly dislike each other, at least not overtly, but they were not exactly glad to see each other, either. One, a withered old man in a wheelchair nodded silently to the two women standing before him, one older, one younger. The younger woman nodded back, stealing a quick glance at the older, who ignored the nod and responded only with a cool, unyielding glare that was not so much hateful as it was simply disappointed. Possibly, the older woman had simply hoped the man would not have been able to attend today's auction, or perhaps had even hoped the man had passed away, preferably in a terribly painful way. In any event, the meeting ended quickly as the three were suddenly brought back to the moment by the ringing gavel and the auctioneer's voice announcing that Lot 664 had sold for ₣25. Without a word, the three separated and entered the house, oldest first, then youngest, and the handicapped old man last.

"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen." The auctioneer continued despite their entrance, his voice ringing dully in the muted grey atmosphere of the dusty old opera house. "A papier mâche musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals." A porter produced the item, gently winding it as he held it up for everyone to see. "This item discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen."

The porter spoke, starting the music. "Showing here."

As the music played, all three people were taken back fifty years, back to when the song the monkey played was heard not from a box, but from an operatic pit orchestra, with lyrics. Lyrics that threatened to awaken the ghosts of the past…

_Masquerade…paper faces on parade; Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you…_

The auctioneer started the bidding at ₣15. Madame Meg Giry and the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny both looked up attentively, bidding back and forth for it. Eventually, Madame Giry realized the importance the box held for the Vicomte and backed off, allowing Raoul to purchase the box for ₣30. The porter brought the box to him, and he looked it over with something between wondrous ecstasy and sorrowful terror. The older woman looked at the box in his hands, tears starting to collect in the corners of her eyes. It still worked. Surely, the construction of the box must have bordered on artistry, for it to still play after all these years. ₣30 was a steal for something so valuable, but Madame Sara Reynolds wouldn't have bought the box for ₣2. She was here for one item and one item alone. She suspected it would soon be put on the block.

She would not be disappointed. "Lot 666, then. A chandelier, in pieces." Sara turned around and eyed the tarp in the middle of the dusty opera house. Underneath it, something jagged poked up into the fabric, creating icicle stalagmites out of the canvas, as if to refute accusations of its role in the inferno of legend. It sat still and silent, much as it had several years ago, albeit now on the floor, instead of hanging from the ceiling. In the past, it would only be lit during a show, since it was dangerous and difficult to lower the beast to light each candle individually. However, it had not held a light in decades, and as the auctioneer explained how the craftsmen had 'fixed' it and added electric lighting, Sara felt a twinge of anger. How dare they try to change the past! What had happened…no amount of electric lighting would ever chase away that ghost.

The ghost…she closed her eyes as the auctioneer continued, imploring the men to raise the tarp. She remembered the legend. She remembered the ghost. The ghost whose only crime was drawing his first breath…the ghost whose only consolation came in the influence of his horrific powers…the ghost who was at once saved from death only to be condemned to a life devoid of purpose. The ghost who was feared by all, hated by most, and loved by none.

Save one.

Suddenly, she felt a cool breeze. Just like fifty years ago…that night had been cold…deep in the winter, it was. Another made its way under her cape, chilling her legs and back. She shivered, her eyes still closed. Had fifty years really passed? She was old…but she could still remember it all as though it was yesterday. The cold wind, the tights, the ballet slippers on her feet…they were performing Hannibal the next day and rehearsal was to start in a very short time. She was at the theatre, already dressed. She and Christine were down in the Chapelle, where she was providing a sort of silent moral support for Christine, who was lighting a candle for her father. For the first time in years, she had almost forgotten to come down and go through her pre-rehearsal ritual. Sara went with her, so that when she showed up late to rehearsal, she would not be the only one. After all, Sara had almost made a habit of showing up late to rehearsals. She smiled to herself. She was by no means the ideal chorus girl, and her poor physical condition often forced her to show up late to rehearsals, assuming she showed up at all. Other girls had been taken out of programs for lesser infractions, but luckily for Sara, anytime Madame Giry, Meg's biological mother and the pseudo-adoptive mother of all the chorus girls, had had any cause to punish Sara, she had held back, never really unleashing the kind of fearful power Sara knew she possessed. For most of her life, she assumed it was her relationship with Meg. But in time, she had learned the truth…


	2. Chapter 2

After leaving the Chapelle that night, Sara had suddenly felt a headache coming on and had made her way back to the dressing rooms to lie down, hoping it would go away. Sara had always been plagued by low-grade headaches, something she attributed to her poor respiratory condition combined with the dank air of the opera house. Usually, a short nap would fix the problem, but it had caused her some small issues in her dancing days. She clearly remembered having done just that on that night before the opening of Hannibal…

"Sara!" Someone was tugging on her arm. She ignored them, trying to stay warm in her cape. The tugging was not helping, but it didn't stop. "Sara, wake up! Mother will be furious; you're late again!" Late? She didn't think she had any appointments today. She opened her eyes, confused. Meg Giry's shining young countenance was staring at her, anxious and with one hand raised, clearly prepared to slap the life back into Sara if she didn't awaken on her own. Panicking, Sara flailed, pushing Meg back across the room. She sat up and looked around. She was in the dressing room. It was gargantuan; the Opera Populaire had numerous dressing rooms like this, capable of allowing several girls to prepare for the show at the same time. Sara's stomach dropped when she realized that she had been asleep. She had come back to the dressing room to lie down for a moment, to relieve her headache, and had accidentally fallen asleep. Now, clearly very upset by her absence, Madame Giry had sent Meg to find her.

Meg came back over and took Sara by the hand, frantically pulling her to her feet. "Come on, Sara! Mother's going to kill you if you don't hurry! She's already mad about the rumours of Monsieur Lefevre's retirement going around, and she's ready to murder anyone who causes problems!" Sara was up in a flash, a throw falling to the ground at her feet. She mused for a moment that she didn't remember having had anything over her when she had fallen asleep. She was already in costume for the rehearsal, and was deathly afraid of wrinkling or damaging the gorgeous fabric and trimmings. Despite the dangers to the costume, rehearsals were conducted in performance garb, so that any problems involving mobility and voice related to the costumes could be discovered and remedied.

Terrified, Sara scanned her outfit for any signs of damage, but was surprised to discover that whoever had put the throw over her had clearly known the dangers of friction and pressure to the delicate designs, and had placed it very gently, and very carefully, to prevent her costume from being damaged. Of all the people in the theatre, there were only a few who would know enough to do this. All the performers, of course, the costumers, Madame Giry…but she didn't think any of those people would have bothered. It was a little strange.

But she didn't have time to think about it. Meg still had her by the arm, and was still yammering about how furious Madame Giry was going to be. Sara did not need to be reminded; she had faced the Madame's fury before. Although she tended to be very understanding and caring to all the chorus girls, her anger and her tongue could be sharp enough to draw blood and tears. Still, she was as kind and wonderful to them as anyone dealing with dozens of egocentric and uptight young women could be, and she certainly knew more about them than anyone else, possibly because she was the 'mother' they spent most of their time around.

Performing at the Opera Populaire meant you lived at the Opera Populaire. You were either on stage rehearsing, backstage rehearsing, or in the dormitories, preparing to rehearse later. It was as much a prison as it was a dancing school. Sara had been a student of the school for fourteen years, now, and tomorrow was to be her first real performance. She'd had short stints on stage before, simple jétes across the back of the stage, more scenic than active. Tonight, however, she was to be in the foreground, several times. Tomorrow, she would be in the foreground several times in front of an actual audience. To be sure, she would be with Meg and Christine, but in a ballet at the Opera Populaire, with patrons worth millions of francs in the audience, their presence would be little comfort.

Sara had often wondered whether she had chosen the correct career path when she had decided to become a dancer. She had no doubt that her future was on stage, in front of an adoring audience, but in truth, she wasn't certain that dance was the right medium for her. She was not overly talented, like Meg and Christine were, and even though there was no doubt she could hold her own against the more self-centred dancers in the company, she occasionally mused about whether she would have been better off trying to become a singer, instead. She had a beautiful voice, and that wasn't simply her ego talking.

One night, when she was alone in the dressing room, finishing preparations for rehearsal, she had been singing to herself. She couldn't remember the name of the song, or where she had even learned it, but it was so beautiful that she couldn't get it out of her head.

Suddenly, the door to the room opened, and Madame Giry stepped inside. "Christine, why are you still back—" She broke off when she realized that Christine was still where she'd left her, on stage. Madame scanned the room quickly to verify that Sara was indeed the only person left before closing the door behind her. "Sara, was that you?"

Sara nodded apprehensively. "Yes, Madame. I was just singing to…ease my nerves. With rehearsals and all—"

"Who taught you to sing like that?" Madame Giry started towards Sara, a mix of surprise and confusion still present on her face.

Sara blinked, nonplussed. "N-no one. I have never had a teacher."

"Nonsense. Talent must be cultivated into skill. No one, not even La Carlotta, can sing like that without coaching."

Sara smiled faintly. "La Carlotta cannot sing with coaching, either."

Madame Giry's face remained neutral. "She can when she's not trying so hard. As can you. But as I said, no one can do it without a tutor. So, who is it?" She sat next to Sara and leaned forward, her voice softer now. "I promise not to reveal this to anyone else, if you don't want me to. I simply wish to know how you achieved such amazing progress so quickly, without anyone else's knowledge."

Sara flushed and looked at the hairbrush in her lap. "I told you, I don't have a teacher. No one will give me a second thought. They always tell me that no one can sing with breathing problems like mine." She looked back at Madame Giry. "I'm sorry."

Madame Giry looked at her for a moment or two longer before settling back in the chair, a pensive look on her face. Nervous, Sara sat next to her, silently waiting for her to say something. One did not simply walk out on Madame Giry. She would let Sara know when the conversation was over, and only then would she feel comfortable standing and leaving. She let Madame sit and think for a minute and a half before finally breaking under the pressure of the silence. "Well, what I mean to say is that…I don't have a living tutor. At least, not a physical, tangible one."

Madame Giry looked up with surprise. "Oh? How is that possible?" She did not look so much disbelieving as she looked simply curious.

Sara took a deep breath and continued. "Well, you see, sometimes when I am sleeping, I dream I am in a studio, alone, singing with the accompaniment of an organ behind me. It is always very quiet, so I can hear myself singing, but every so often, I will hear a voice behind me, and he will tell me what to do to improve. So I do what he tells me in the dream, and I improve. I never see his face, because he is always wearing a hood, and all black. Sometimes, he will come around so I can see him, and he will sing with me, and teach me new songs, like the one I was singing when you came in. Songs so beautiful and so sad that you can't forget them, no matter how hard you try. And his voice is so beautiful, but contains so much sadness…" She trailed off, lost in memories of the man in her dreams.

Madame Giry asked very quietly. "Do you know his name?"

Sara nodded. "Yes. I asked him once what I should call him, and he simply told me to call him the 'Ghost of Song.' I told him that was a title, not a name, and he was very quiet for a long time before finally telling me that I was right, and that his name was Erik, but that he preferred if I called him the 'Ghost of Song' just the same." Sara stopped herself without explaining the rest of what Erik had told her. He had also said it would be better all around if she never questioned his advice, but simply did as he commanded. He explained that if she didn't do as he said, he couldn't come visit her anymore, and she would never get better. Sara knew that no one else would ever take on such a daunting task as to try to instruct a hopeless cause like her, and she had agreed fervently that she would follow his instructions as best she could.

Madame Giry considered Sara's words for a beat. Sensing disbelief, Sara jumped in with an explanation of her own. "Maybe I just…tapped into some subconscious well of talent? I mean…I know it sounds odd, but I have heard of things like that happening to people." She blushed again. "But I won't tell anyone about this if you don't think I should. I can stop singing, too, if you think it would cause problems…"

Madame Giry shook her head and slowly stood up. "No, I don't think there's any need for all that. I think you may well have done just that. But don't go telling everyone about this…Erik fellow, okay? I would hate to lose one of my favourite dancers to an asylum." She smiled weakly and immediately started towards the door.

Sara stood up. "Well, can I at least tell Meg and Christine?"

She paused and mumbled something to herself before looking over her shoulder and replying, "I wouldn't tell them just yet. I fear they might become jealous." Sara could see in her eyes that Madame Giry feared no such thing. But the Ballet Mistress said nothing more before leaving again, closing the door behind her.

From that moment on, she lived for those dreams, in which the dark man would treat her like the budding diva she dreamed of being. He was the only person who truly seemed to know and understand her heart's deepest desires. One time she had even asked him his name, and he had responded in a very irritated tone, saying that in time, she would come to know him personally, but only if she followed his instructions to the letter. Ever since, Sara had tried very hard to maintain the sort of perfection her imagined maitre would approve of. And it may have been her imagination, but it seemed to Sara that Madame Giry had treated her differently after that night, perhaps just a little more gently than before.

Now, though, no amount of fine singing or dream-borne talent would save her from her impending fate. Still, as she ran down the hallways of the opera house, dodging maintenance men and stagehands, she was glad Meg was with her. Madame never killed in the presence of her daughter. In truth, she had never really killed anyone, but she had caused quite a few girls to quit dancing. One expected that Madame Giry would feel guilt over those poor girls, but Sara knew better. Madame Giry may have loved and cared for the dancers like daughters, but she was still the Ballet Mistress. Madame knew the pressure the girls were under, but she also knew that young girls like Sara and Christine could take verbal abuse like that and bounce back. Anyone incapable of doing so was probably better off not dancing, anyway. The Madame felt no guilt.

Running past actual costumed people now, Sara knew they were getting closer to the stage. Some performers were coming from the stage, some were preparing for later scenes in the opera. Several dancers were standing in a corner, still stretching their long legs past what would seem humanly possible. The dancers at the Opera were like living rubber. They had to be, for some of the positions and moves required inhuman physical movement. She smiled at them as she passed, one of them calling out her name and yelling that she had something for her in the dressing room. Sara waved back, acknowledging the other girl before turning back to follow Meg.

Near the stage, Meg paused to rub her slippers in a tray of chalk at the bottom of a staircase. Sara did likewise before continuing to where a group of girls was standing, waiting to go on stage. Meg got to the group first, stopping and leaning over to catch her breath for a moment. Sara stopped next to her, also leaning over to catch her breath whilst scanning the nearby area for any signs of Madame Giry. "I'm lucky for once; she's not here."

"Um, Sara?" Christine Daaé, another of her best friends here in the opera house, looked down at Sara with a frown and pointed past her, in the direction she and Meg had just come from. Fearful, she turned halfway around and immediately looked back at Christine, terror in her eyes. Madame Giry was coming up to the group at full speed, with the Angel of Death struggling to keep up. Christine stifled a giggle. "You're in for it now."

Meg straightened and bent backwards a little, stretching to loosen her muscles back up after her unscheduled run. "She was asleep. Can you believe it, Christine? Sleeping during a rehearsal!"

Sara whispered to her friends. "We weren't rehearsing when I went back there! We still had half an hour."

Christine was still giggling. "How can you sleep in that costume?"

Sara shrugged. "I really don't know. I didn't intend to sleep at all. I must have dozed off."

Christine motioned in the direction of Madame Giry's approach. "Well, now you're going to die off. It really was wonderful knowing you, Sara. Do say hello to my father when you get to heaven. Assuming, that is, that Madame leaves enough of you for your soul to still be able to fly."

Sara made an unpleasant face. Suddenly, a hand made of iron came down on her shoulder and slowly clamped shut. "Mademoiselle Reynolds. Dare you even try to explain your tardiness?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sara turned very slowly, hoping to postpone her execution as long as possible. Suddenly, as if an edict from God himself, a voice from the front signalled that the group was fifteen seconds from going onstage. Madame Giry released her, knowing that if her broken body was not pitched into the alley behind the theatre tonight, Sara would be performing tomorrow, and as such would need all the rehearsal she could get.

Temporarily safe from the Madame's wrath, Sara sighed and tried to mentally prepare herself to go onstage. Hannibal was a very chaotic opera, but like any piece of artistic chaos, was actually very organized. However, in order to keep the façade of chaos alive, the organization was very complicated and difficult to follow, even for the dancers. Especially for the dancers. And Sara, for all her singing talent, had a very difficult time keeping track of complicated dance routines. Listening to the music, Sara counted the beats. _1…2…3…4…1…2…3...4…_

Monsieur Reyer yelled to Signor Ubaldo Piangi about his mispronunciation of 'Rome.' Piangi yelled something back in his thick Spanish accent and the show continued, without missing even half a beat. Signora Carlotta Giudicelli came down the stage in her overly garish costume, singing in the horribly wheedling voice that befitted a diva who had clearly overstayed her welcome. Sara winced a little as she and Meg giggled to each other. Sara knew that no matter how M. Lefevre tried to deny it, Carlotta's days were numbered here at the Opera Populaire, not only because she was past her prime, but also because she was far too proud to accept anything but what she considered perfection. Naturally, Signora's idea of perfection was rather narrow, and usually hinged on her personal happiness. Anytime anything went wrong, she walked off stage. Anytime someone missed a cue, she walked off stage. Anytime she missed a note, she blamed M. Reyer, and then walked off stage. Anytime she missed her mark on stage and ran into someone else, she blamed the other actor, called for her doggie, and walked off stage. She was, in a word, hopeless. Too garish to stay, too famous to leave, she was set to be a blemish on the Opera Populaire stage until she removed herself from it.

Suddenly, a commotion stopped the rehearsal, and in the midst of the flurry of voices on stage, Sara caught the sound of M. Lefevre's quiet voice cutting its way through the bedlam. He was calling for silence, and in a moment, he got his wish. Anyone within earshot of the stage immediately left the wings to see what the hold up was, including Sara, Meg, Christine, and the rest of the chorus girls. Sara eventually found a steady viewing spot between Christine and Carlotta, who gave her a single arrogant glance before turning back to M. Lefevre. M. Reyer, clearly flustered by the interruption, was gripping his baton with knuckles as white as his hair, thin from years of pulling it out in frustration. Sara almost felt sorry for him. He really was a kind and gentle man, but like Madame Giry, had spent far too much time dealing with narcissists, and it was aging him at an alarming rate.

M. Reyer leaned on his music stand, angrily addressing the owner of the Opera Populaire. "Monsieur Lefevre, I am rehearsing!"

M. Lefevre gently waved the conductor off and turned to address the crowd onstage. "Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, please, if I could have you attention, thank you." Everyone leaned in closer to hear what he was going to say, even though it was unlikely to be a surprise. Rumours of the manager's impending retirement had started circulating about a month ago, and in the past four weeks, they had done nothing but gain momentum. It would be a relief for him finally to announce it to everyone, since rumours had a way of causing problems both on and off the stage. "As you all know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these are all true, and it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire," he turned and motioned to the two men behind him as everyone exchanged knowing glances and whispered 'told you so' to each other, "Monsieur Richard Firmin, and Monsieur Gilles Andre." The two men, who appeared to Sara fully capable of financially supporting the opera house and all its extensions, did not appear to understand the first thing about song or dance. Sara smirked to herself. Much like Carlotta, they were clearly only in the business for the popularity and the monetary gain.

Her fears were confirmed a moment later as the two new owners of the opera house introduced their new patron, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. He bounded up onto the stage, his long blonde hair flowing behind him as the bright stage lights reflected off his beautiful white smile and his chiselled features. Meg leaned over to Christine and whispered, "He's so handsome…" Christine responded too quietly for Sara to hear, not that she cared. Sara rolled her eyes and groaned inwardly. Why was it the pompous aristocrats who were supposed to have all the sex appeal? Sara didn't buy into the hype. Yes, he was wealthy. Yes, he was very attractive. And to be fair, he did have a decent appreciation for the arts, as was displayed by his personal patronage of the opera house. But none of these things held Sara's interest for longer than a minute at a time. What happened if he lost all that money? What if he were in an accident that ruined that sickeningly perfect face of his? What if something happened to the Opera Populaire? Would there be anything left underneath all the layers of ego to support the kind of loving relationship Sara yearned for? She doubted it. Let all the other chorus girls throw themselves at the Vicomte; Sara was holding out. The man of her dreams was out there somewhere…somewhere…

M. Reyer whacked his stand as the new owners went to meet with Madame Giry, so that rehearsal could continue from the moment of interruption. Sara and the chorus girls returned to the wing, where they waited the very short amount of time remaining before they were go on. As Sara followed everyone else out onto the stage, she tried to watch the other dancers around her and keep an eye on the new owners and Madame Giry at the same time. It was not easy, and though Sara could tell that she was telling them about Meg, Christine, and herself, she couldn't discern the exact words without missing a beat and falling on her face, which, as far as M. Reyer was concerned, was punishable by beheading.

Suddenly, a commotion around her announced the end of the song and the prelude to Carlotta's predictable move towards the edge of the stage. She was screeching something about the new managers only enjoying the dancing girls, instead of what she clearly considered the most interesting and beautiful part of the show: herself. Sara sighed and turned around, heading back for the wings to wait for rehearsal to resume, assuming, of course, it would resume. Sig.ra Carlotta's tantrums could last for hours. She always returned, eventually - the limelight had far too great a pull on her for her to stay away for long - but it might be a while.

M. Firmin and M. Andre went after Carlotta, trying to woo her back into singing. Carlotta finally acquiesced to sing an aria for the two desperate owners. Sara groaned, this time audibly. Carlotta took great pride in butchering fine arias, and this aria was particularly beautiful. Sara would be sad to hear it murdered like this.

As Carlotta began, Sara tried hard to ignore the wails of the leading soprano, who was clearly trying far too hard to impress everyone around her to focus on the quality of her singing. She made her way upstage and nonchalantly looked up into the rafters and marvelled at the complexity of the construction of the beautiful building. The Opera Populaire was not as famous for its stage shows as it was for its architecture. After all, there was such a thing as a bad year for the stage, but year after year, the statues and angels still stood, silent and proud, with no change in form or dignity. She felt a swelling of pride knowing that she not only lived inside this building, but actually contributed to the beauty of an already breathtaking construction by displaying her talents on its honoured stage.

Suddenly, she heard a shuffling noise from somewhere above her. At first, she suspected Joseph Buquet, the Chief of the Flies, but suddenly remembered that she had just seen him harassing one of the other female extras backstage, nowhere near the source of the sound. He was not a small man, and any attempt to move across the catwalks at the speed that such a feat would have required would have made an incredible racket. Puzzled, she looked up and scanned the catwalks, noting with interest that Madame Giry was also looking at something above the stage, with an expression that defied definition.

Then she heard another noise, this time accompanied by a flurry of movement above the stage, during which she caught a flash of white that quickly disappeared again into the darkness. Fascinated, Sara continued to search for any further signs of motion, but was pulled from her search by one of the chorus girls shrieking in fear. Concerned, she looked towards the shriek to see what had caused it, and barely caught a glimpse of people diving out of the way as a heavy backdrop swiftly unfurled, making a loud crashing noise as it drew its ropes swiftly through the pulley system it was installed on. People dove upstage and downstage, pushing each other out of the way of the falling canvas. Not surprisingly, no one but Piangi made a particularly extreme effort to rescue the Prima Donna, and the backdrop struck La Carlotta with a glancing blow as it fell.

Stunned, Sara could only watch the chaos around her develop into a concerted effort to make sure the Prima Donna was all right. Carlotta was ranting angrily about the incident, and the new owners were unsuccessfully trying to placate the diva. Sara was standing next to Meg again when the younger dancer murmured excitedly to her two friends, "It's the Phantom of the Opera!"

At her words, Sara felt a sudden thrill travel down her spine. The Phantom of the Opera! He was nothing but a legend as far as most people in the opera house were concerned, but a few, like Meg, Christine, Sara, M. Lefevre, and Madame Giry, knew the truth: someone dark and sinister lived somewhere in the shadows of the opera house. No one was certain where, exactly, but most people believed as Sara did, that he lived up in the rafters, and the catwalks, always staying just a step ahead of Buquet and his men, avoiding detection. Some suggested that he was a magician, and did not need to avoid detection, since he could simply disappear at will. Sara wasn't sure if she believed the story quite that completely, but there was certainly no doubt that whoever the Phantom was, he was a fantastic and chillingly exceptional person…assuming, of course, that it was a person…

M. Lefevre yelled up into the rafters. "Buquet! For God's sake, man, what's going on up there?"

Buquet suddenly reappeared and started reeling the rope connected to the backdrop back in. "Please Monsieur, don't look at me! As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post!" The silence in the theatre was palpable. No one doubted Buquet's words, since admitting that he was not at his post was a serious infraction, especially during a rehearsal; it was Buquet's job to make certain that all the visual effects went off without a hitch. Being away from his post was grounds for punishment, not that anyone honestly expected him to receive any; Joseph Buquet was the most experienced Chief of the Flies to grace the Opera Populaire's backstage in years.

But Buquet's absence was almost worse to consider, as his next words explained. "Please Monsieur, there's no one there! Or if there is…well then, he must be a ghost!" He laughed derisively. He was the only one who did.

Sara's attention was otherwise occupied, however. While everyone else was watching the managers floundering about trying to convince the Prima Donna to stay, Madame Giry was watching something floating through the air backstage, almost out of Sara's sight. She moved a little for a better view and saw two heavy envelopes gently sail down through the musty backstage and settle near Madame Giry's feet. She looked at them in apprehension for a moment before picking them up and reading the names on the fronts. Then, something happened that Sara had never witnessed before. Madame Giry's face paled, and she looked genuinely anxious. Fear was not in Madame Giry's repertoire, but Sara had never even seen the dance instructor unsettled, let alone actually worried. She immediately knew why. She caught a glimpse of the seal on one of the envelopes, and even at this distance, Sara could tell that it was a raised wax seal in the shape of a skull. Another thrill tingled her spine. It was the seal of the Opera Ghost…


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, sorry about the short update, but this chapter precedes a very long chapter, which should appear by Sunday. After that, I hope to fall into a schedule by which I will post a new chapter a least once every three days, if not every other day. Thanks for positive reviews; I love to write for people who really appreciate my hard work:)**

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Madame Giry straightened and immediately regained her former air of control. She slipped one envelope into her pocket. Then, she took the other letter in her hand and quietly tore it open. She extracted and read the thin parchment tucked inside, then, with a look of resolve, the Madame started in Sara's direction. Sara quickly and quietly returned to the stage and took up her position near Meg and Christine, trying futilely to keep herself from watching Madame Giry come forward and address the new managers. As she spoke, she threw a quick glance in Sara's direction, and Sara immediately became very interested in a particular pattern of glitter on Meg's costume, her cheeks burning a little in embarrassment.

"I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost." Her face was sombre, devoid of any humour. At the words, anyone within earshot, and even a few people who were out of it, but whose ears were so highly tuned to the words 'Opera Ghost' that they couldn't help hearing them, came back to the stage and collected around the ballet mistress and the two owners.

M. Firmin turned on his heel and addressed her directly with such a disrespectful response that Sara gasped audibly. "Oh, God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!"

Sara whispered quietly to her friends. "If Madame Giry believes it, it is anything but an obsession!" Meg and Christine nodded in silent agreement. Madame Giry was known to be very wise and very suspicious of superstition and fable.

Madame Giry seemed unfazed. "He welcomes you to his opera house-"

Firmin's eyes popped in indignation. "_His_ opera house!"

"And commands that you continue to leave Box 5 empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is due." Madame Giry handed him the note and prepared herself for a predictably foolish and childish response.

"His _salary!_" M. Firmin's face turned red as he glanced over the note, confirming Madame Giry's words.

She shrugged. "Monsieur Lefevre used to give him 20,000 francs a month."

M. Firmin gaped at her in disbelief. "20,000 francs!" He looked as though he'd swallowed a frog, his cheeks puffing as he tried to comprehend everything at once.

Madame Giry was anything but sympathetic. "Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte as your patron?" In fact, Sara could have sworn that the ballet mistress was actually enjoying watching the manager flounder.

Firmin made a visible effort to compose himself. "Madame, I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight when the Vicomte was to join us for the gala," he suddenly began to tear up the note and envelope in his hands furiously, "but obviously, we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have lost our star!" He turned to M. Andre, the vein in his forehead standing out and throbbing. "A full house, Andre, we shall have to refund a full house!" Andre seemed completely lost, opening and closing his mouth without producing any words.

Sara and her friends were quietly laughing to each other. She had to admit, she was so far completely unimpressed by the new managers. She had liked M. Lefevre. He may have been a timid and unassuming person, but he was kind and understanding, and enjoyed spending time talking to the minor actors and actresses, the chorus girls, and even the stagehands. He avoided Carlotta and Piangi as much as possible, but when he had been forced to deal with them, he'd done it gracefully and proudly. Carlotta had marched out on M. Lefevre at least once a night, but each time, she had inexplicably returned of her own volition, and even Piangi admitted that the former owner of the opera house had been one of the most respectful and experienced managers the Opera Populaire had ever had. It was a sharp blow to the entire cast that he was leaving them.

Sara's favourite thing about the former owner was that whenever he dealt with the chorus girls, he'd spoken to their face, instead of their chest or hips. He would often leave little gifts for some of his favourite dancers, little notes of encouragement, single roses sitting on their bunks in the dormitories. Strangely, he would always tie bows onto the roses in black ribbon. Sara wasn't certain why, but she wasn't about to complain. She'd gotten an anonymous note before each of her 'performances,' no matter how minor the role, and a rose with a black ribbon on it after each one. No one ever mentioned the gifts, and Sara assumed that everything thought that they were the only ones receiving them, and Sara was content to let them think so. She simply basked in the glow of his appreciation all by herself. He certainly knew how to make a chorus girl feel special.

"Christine Daaé could sing it, sir." The comment came from Madame Giry, whom Sara noticed had just opened and read the letter that must have been addressed to her. Sara wondered for a moment what the note could contain, but forgot about it when she realized that all conversation had suddenly stopped. An instant later, M. Firmin inadvertently explained why.

"What, a chorus girl?" Sara and all her friends knew that although it was a fine and lofty goal to dream of going straight from chorus girl to Prima Donna, it had never been done before, and was certainly not likely to happen any time in the foreseeable future.

Regardless, Madame Giry pressed on. "Let her sing for you, Monsieur. She has been well taught." Christine did not look like she agreed with the Ballet Mistress. Firmin asked who her tutor had been, and she admitted she didn't know his name. M. Firmin gave up at that. M. Andre, however, was a little more reasonable, and asked her to show them what she could do.

Slowly and shyly, Christine broke away from Meg and Sara and walked forward, with M. Andre coaxing her downstage. M. Reyer instructed her to start at the beginning of the same aria Carlotta had just slain.

"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves."

"Well, she's very pretty…"

Christine ignored the managers' comments and began singing. Sara was stunned to hear Christine's singing voice. She elbowed Meg and asked if she'd known that Christine could sing like that. Meg shrugged and shook her head. "I have never heard her sing."

Sara furrowed her brow. "Nor have I." She was suddenly very disappointed. Somehow, she had always thought that she was the only chorus girl with a voice worth actually flaunting on the stage. But Christine was clearly just as talented as her, perhaps even more so…


	5. Chapter 5

That night, the curtains parted on Christine's debut performance as Elissa, and for the first night in a long time Sara felt a serious pang of jealousy against her friend. Sitting in front of her vanity halfway through the show, Sara stared at the mirror in front of her, wondering exactly why Madame Giry had suggested that the managers listen to Christine sing the aria, instead of her. Surely Madame Giry knew how well Sara could sing, and how much she would have cherished the opportunity to show off her skills, however limited they may have been. Still, though, she bet that one-on-one, she could best Christine in singing, especially on a song that Sara loved so much! But once again, she had been overlooked, skipped over. Like an eighth rest on an upbeat, she had been ignored. She grabbed the edges of her vanity mirror and shook it. "Why does everyone overlook the '_and_'!" she demanded of it.

The mirror was silent, as usual. Sara sighed and leaned forward on her hands, staring at her own reflection. For once, she'd like to look into the cool silver window and see someone else, someone with more talent, with more courage, with a reason to continue improving, working…living. But as usual, she saw only herself, at a plateau of skill, perhaps even a ceiling, and with no sign of an opportunity or a cause to continue working to get better. If only someone could give her some motivation, some...drive...something to work for, to strive to attain...

"Hey, Upbeat, we're on in a few minutes." Meg thumped Sara on the back of the head with her index finger. Sara yelped and whipped around, trying to catch Meg with a retaliatory backhand, but Meg skipped out of the way just in time, laughing as she ran out of the dressing room. Sara stood, mumbling and fixing her hair. Then, she straightened out her costume again and left the room.

She weaved in and out of various actors and stagehands as she made her way towards the stage. She imagined to herself what it might be like to be the Prima Donna for once. Her costume would be the most beautiful, and the most ornate. No matter who else was on stage, she would be the centre of attention. Her face would be on every poster, and her voice would be the talk of all Paris. She would finally be a star...

Suddenly, she was jerked back to reality as she ran into and tripped over another dancer who was leaning over, adjusting her slippers. The two of them rolled into a third, and chaos ensued. As the three dancers tried frantically to extract themselves from one another, Sara thought she heard the sickening sound of tearing fabric. Madame Giry finally showed up and ended the fracas by grabbing one of the dancers by the arm and Sara by the nape and removing them both. "What is going on here?"

All three girls spoke at once, each trying to exonerate herself. Suddenly, Madame Giry's eyes widened in horror, and Sara followed her gaze down to her own midsection. A huge tear seared itself across her belly, revealing her toned but very inappropriate midriff. Immediately, she clapped her hands over the tear as Madame Giry's face slowly reddened. She turned the other two towards the stage and gave them both a shove. "Elizabeth, Marine, get to the stage. Mademoiselle Reynolds will not be performing tonight."

Sara was stunned. "But Madame..."

Madame Giry's face left no room for argument. Sara sighed and hung her head as the Ballet Mistress took her by the arm and dragged her back to the dressing room, muttering furiously, a speech of which Sara only caught a few words. The bits she did catch did nothing to improve her mood. When they got to the room, Madame Giry took one last glance at Sara's outfit and spat, "It's ruined. There's no way we can possibly fix that kind of damage and still be performance quality. You've destroyed it!"

The comment stung. "But it wasn't my fault! I just-"

"Just what?" Madame Giry exploded at her. "Just tripped? Just slipped? Just didn't see Marine? Just wasn't paying attention, as usual! Save your excuses, Mademoiselle! I've had it with you! All of this nonsense, showing up late for practice, sleeping through rehearsals, missing cues and steps on stage, fiddling around during rehearsal; it's too much! You are a fine dancer, Mademoiselle, but you are far from being a prodigy. I can only overlook so much, and this," she grabbed one of the torn edges of Sara's costume and shook it, "this is the final straw!" She gritted her teeth as her eyes sparkled with a dangerous brand of rage. "Pack up your things, Mademoiselle! You are finished at the Opera Populaire!" With that, she turned on her heel and left, slamming the door furiously behind her.

* * *

Sara stood, silent and shocked, for a long moment, trying to fully process everything she had just heard. As it slowly sank in, she was a little surprised to realize that she wasn't as devastated as she had thought she would be. It was neither unexpected nor did it feel particularly undeserved. She reflected back on her career as she went to her vanity and started collecting her things. Madame Giry was right; Sara could count the number of times she had shown up on time for rehearsal on one hand, and she'd missed at least a dozen important rehearsals and countless little practice sessions for various reasons, not the least of which was her infamous penchant for oversleeping. In truth, she was surprised that she'd lasted as long as she had. Even so, she would be crushed to have to leave this theatre behind. It had essentially been her home for the past several years. And her friends…

Her ears suddenly pricked as she caught the beginning of a familiar song, one she'd heard and even practiced herself numerous times:

_ "Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye._  
_Remember me once in a while, please promise me you'll try…"_

Suddenly, Sara's brave front began to crumble. She was leaving her best and truthfully her only friends behind. Meg, who had so many times protected her from Madame Giry's ire, no longer able to defend her wayward friend. Meg had a definite and glittering future in theatre. She was a far better dancer than Sara, and she would do well to be rid of Sara, dragging her down all the time. And Christine…

_ "Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons, so do we._  
_But please promise me that sometimes, you will think…"_

As Christine delicately danced through the bell tones, Sara could feel a wall half composed of tears and half of an appalling, unexplainable rage welling up inside of her…

_ "Of…me!"_

On the final note, Sara broke down. She sobbed openly, tears coursing down her cheeks as her anger finally burst loose. It was all directed at Christine. Christine, with her perfect voice, and her perfect face, and her perfect damn everything! Sara went to Christine's vanity and started pulling out the drawers, grabbing anything she found inside and throwing it to the ground, stomping on dried rose petals and yellowed parchment, feeling a morbid sense of satisfaction in knowing that these were the same notes Sara had been getting for all these years. Well, Christine clearly didn't need the encouragement anymore, what with her being so perfect.

So perfect that Sara had never even had a chance to show what she could do! Sara had been at the Opera House longer than Christine, years longer! She and Meg had been friends forever before Christine decided to shove her pointy nose into things. Meg, wonderful and sweet as ever, had immediately accepted Christine with open arms, but Sara knew…Sara could see the deceit. Christine was selfish, she was childish, and Sara knew…oh, she knew that someday, someday Christine would go to far, and everyone would see her for the fraud she was, climbing over the backs of her so-called friends to boost herself into the limelight!

In her anger, Sara caught sight of herself in the mirror, and the vision she saw was too much to bear. She saw herself, crying, angry, defeated and with nowhere to turn, no place to go, and no one who could truly understand her pain. Her blood, sweat, and tears over the past so many years were wasted, and it was that mirror, that loathsome face in the mirror that was the cause of it all! That face…she hated that face! She looked around frantically and grabbed the chair sitting in front of the vanity next to hers. Then, with all her rage and despair culminating in one violent outburst, she heaved the chair through the glass, shattering it with a loud crash and scattering all the broken pieces of her beastly reflection. Then, with no more energy to spare even to continue standing in the dressing room, she collapsed onto the floor and cried herself into an exhausted faint.


	6. Chapter 6

It was dark. After a moment, a candle suddenly flickered to life and the gentle strains of someone playing a pipe organ somewhere began wafting through Sara's despairing cloud of self-hatred. Even though she knew her eyes were still closed, she could still see by the light of the candle. The room was dark, with stone walls, and she could feel the dank air gently caressing her tear-stained face. She recognized this place, but the scene was not complete. Not yet…not until…

"Bonsoir, ma chere." His voice immediately lifted her spirits. Elated, she turned to face him, and as usual, her breath was stolen from her immediately. He was standing a few paces away, wearing a beautiful black suit, a white ruffed shirt peeking mischievously out from underneath his chin. The buttons on the vest were polished onyx, and on the shirt, polished pearl. His hands were on his hips, and he had a heavy black velvet cape about his shoulders, the underside of which was laced with gentle curving designs, mimicking the designs on his black velvet vest.

Then, he did something she'd never seen him do before. He reached up and carefully, deftly lifted his hood off his head and let if fall down onto his shoulders. For the first time ever, Sara was allowed to see the face of the man who had coaxed her deepest fantasies out into the light. His shining black hair was slicked back, away from his face, which suited Sara just fine. She could only see half his face, since the other half had a polished ivory mask over it. His skin was pale, but the dim light of the candle made I less obvious. His lips were full and he wore an impish smirk. But the most amazing feature was the one she could see even behind the mask. His eyes were a snapping, silvery blue, with a sparkle that belied the darkness she could see just below the surface.

After a moment of surprise, Sara broke into a smile and ran towards him. "Erik! I'm so glad to see you!" She reached him and wrapped her arms around his chest in a friendly hug. "You wouldn't believe how awful it's been with—"

"Sara," he cut her off mid-word. Sara sensed a hint of sadness in his voice, and she pulled back, confused. "My dear, I fear I have but further infelicities to burden your heavy heart with…" He turned his face away, the smirk gone, replaced by a troubled frown.

She pulled away from him completely now, a sense of foreboding pervading her entire mind and body. "Erik, what are you—"

He suddenly turned back to face her again. "The Ghost of Song, Sara! I am the Ghost of Song! Not _Erik!_" He sighed and seemed to recompose himself after the unexpected outburst. "And it is time this ghost returned to his mausoleum. I will not be seeing you again, my dear. The time we shared was a gift for you, and you should cherish it forever." His face and voice became cold again. "But I no longer have time to waste on someone who will never amount to any thing but a mediocre dancing girl." He turned sharply on his heel and started to walk away.

Sara reached forward and grabbed his arm. "No, wait, Erik, I don't—"

He whipped around again and grabbed her arm, twisting it painfully and pushing her backwards. "Don't what? Don't understand? Well, some things are not meant for us to understand! I have my reasons, but all you need to know is that you are nothing to me anymore!" The comment seared like molten lead coursing through her heart. Ever since Sara had first met him, Erik had been the one person she could count on to sit silently and listen to her, and even if he had nothing to say on the subject, he was the best silent counsel she could have asked for. He made sympathetic noises where appropriate, and when she had finished, if she really needed it, Sara could always count on him to appear from the shadows and offer her his shoulder.

But this time…this time, he was being…a monster! Her sadness turned to fear when she realized how tightly he was holding her wrist, and how strong his grip was. She was wary of just how powerful he was, and of how easily he could snap her arm in two if he felt the urge. She struggled to keep the tears out of her eyes, lest she incur his wrath by her show of weakness. She prayed he would not see the fear in her eyes, knowing without a doubt that he would; the Ghost of Song was very perceptive. "Crying, my dear? For fear, no doubt. Good." He pushed her away, releasing her wrist and throwing her to the ground. "It is well and right that you should fear me, for I am the Ghost of Song. My will is fickle, and you displease me." He sneered and turned away, speaking over his shoulder. "Be glad I am _only_ leaving you."

Sara stared at him for a long moment in disbelief, trying hard to comprehend what he was saying. Suddenly, a shaft of light pierced the darkness, and someone called her name. Startled, Erik glanced in the direction of the light, then took one last look at Sara and vanished into the shadows.

* * *

"_No!_" Sara suddenly sat up and searched the dressing room frantically for and traces of the Ghost. Erik was nowhere to be seen, but Meg was walking swiftly across the room, her wide-open gait of an accomplished and well-trained ballerina no less pronounced at the quick pace. Sara reflected that she had to work hard to maintain that stance, and undeserved resentment struggled to make its way into her conscious mind. She fought it back. She knew that if she was going to survive the next few hours, the last person she could afford to alienate was her best and, after Christine saw what Sara had done to her vanity, probably her only remaining friend. 

"Sara, are you okay? Who was that? Did he hurt you? How did he get in?" Meg grabbed Sara's shoulders and looked her over, checking for injury.

"No, I'm not…I mean, I'm alright…well, I mean…I guess…I don't know." Strangely, Sara realized, that was the correct answer to all four questions. She really didn't know much of anything right now. Nothing was making sense anymore, and all she really understood was that her life was spinning completely out of control.

"Thank goodness." Meg hugged her tightly around the shoulders. "I don't see anything." She leaned back a bit, taking one of the ragged edges of the tear in her costume. "Except this. Did he tear your outfit?"

Sara shook her head, a bitter chuckle escaping her lips. "No, that's…" she sighed and smiled sadly, tears returning to the corners of her eyes. "That's the last straw."

Meg raised an eyebrow at her. "The last straw? Of what? I don't understand."

Sara sighed again. "For your mother. I guess she just couldn't take it anymore." She looked Meg in the eyes. "I have a few hours to pack up and leave. I am no longer welcome at the Opera Populaire."

Meg listened, her mouth slightly opened, and then shook her head in disbelief. "No, no, she can't do that, not over something like this. This isn't your fault. I mean…she tends to exaggerate and go overboard, you know how Mother can be. I'll talk to her. You'll see. I'll get her to—"

Sara caught her friend as she stood to make good on her promise. "No, Meg. This time, she's not exaggerating. She's right. I've had fun, and trust me, it's been an amazing and wonderful chapter of my life, but it's time I got a grip on reality and saw that I just don't have a future here. I don't have your drive; I don't have Christine's talent; I…I'm just mediocre." She sighed as Meg sat back down next to her. "I'm just dragging everyone down." She looked Meg in the eyes. "Especially you."

"No…" Meg shook her head, tears starting to collect in her eyes as well. "No, you aren't. You _are_ my drive, Sara. No matter how good I am or how good I want to be, I can never keep up with it unless you're there to keep me from driving myself crazy. You're funny, you're calm, you keep your head no matter what's going on, you're…" she struggled for the right words, "…you're my living comic relief!" Sara chuckled and Meg smiled sadly. "It's true, Sara! I don't know what I'd do without you here to help me."

"I guess you'll find out."

Both girls sat silently for a moment, contemplating the conversation. It wasn't over, not by a long margin, but both realized that if they ever finished it, it would turn the final page in Sara's career at the Opera House for good, and neither of them wanted to initiate that.

Meg broke the ice again. "So…uh…where will you go?"

Sara shrugged. "I guess I'll go back and live with my parents."

Meg smiled. "Oh, good, then you'll still be here in Paris."

Sara nodded, smiling back. "Oh, of course. How else would I be able to come back and visit all my friends?"

Meg chuckled. "Yeah, you had better, you wench." Both girls laughed out loud, silently denying the fact that they both knew it would be quite impossible for Sara to ever return to the Opera Populaire for any reason except to watch a performance. Only performers, stagehands, and people important to the show were ever allowed backstage.

There was another beat of silence. This time, Sara broke the ice. "Oh, I forgot to ask; how did Christine do?"

"Oh, that's right, you didn't see." Meg smiled a little. "Well, she was amazing, but then, we knew she would be, right?" She chuckled a little. Sara just nodded affirmatively. "It was a little strange, though; I found her after the show down in the Chapelle. I guess she was lighting a candle for her father, you know, sort of dedicating the performance to him, I guess. Anyway, I told her how well she did, and she said the strangest thing. She told me that she sang so well because she was tutored by some mysterious…thing…I guess it was a man…but she called him the 'Angel of Music.' Isn't that weird?" Meg chuckled and looked at Sara. "Sara? I said, isn't that weird?"

Sara didn't say anything for a moment. Her heart had sailed through the pit of her stomach and plummeted into her feet. "Did you say she called him the 'Angel of Song?'"

Meg shook her head, frowning. "No, no, the 'Angel of Music.' Why, have you heard of him?"

Sara looked at Meg, holding her by the shoulders. "Meg, I need to talk to Christine, _now!_"

Meg was startled, but conciliatory. "Uh…alright. She's in her dressing room, I think. Come on."

Sara jumped up and threw a cape around her body to cover the tear in her costume and followed Meg out into the hall. Her heart was pounding furiously. If her guess was right, and Christine's Angel was her Ghost, then maybe she could ask Christine some questions, and finally get some real answers…


End file.
